


Eighth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5381057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John needs a last minute present and thinks a book would be a good idea. But things don't go to plan...</p>
<p>This was written for a prompt. I was asked to do a book shop AU. This is what came of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icanwritesee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/gifts).



She'd said she liked cats. That much John remembered. But when she had started to hold forth on the subject, he'd tuned out, oggling her opulent cleavage instead, imagining fondling her voluptuous breasts, clearly noticeable beneath her tight pink neck-holder top.

Now he could kick himself for his negligence.

Because, at the end of their first date, she'd shyly invited him round for a Christmas drink – no big deal, just the two of them – on the 24th. She had cast her eyes down coyly when she'd en passant weaved into her good bye that she knew exactly what John would like to get for Christmas. John, despite his blood pooling in the southern regions of his body, was experienced enough to understand that this called for a gift in exchange, so he'd asked her what would make her happy in return. With a cheeky smile she'd told John that, as he'd been such a fabulous listener, she was quite sure he would think of something special, in contrast to her previous boyfriends, who'd been unimaginative pricks and just given her perfume or lingerie.

It was clear to John that he had to come up with something more sophisticated if he ever wanted to get into her knickers.

So, cats.

He ruled out taking her to the musical. That would have been a bit too much torment to get a leg over.

When asking his female colleagues at the surgery, they suggested all sorts of cat-themed gifts: pillow cases ( _“But you need to know her favourite colours for that, though.”_ ), printed totes ( _“If she's the tote type. Is she the tote type?”_ ), mugs ( _“But, honestly, that's a bit cheap, isn't it?”_ ), a book ( _“Now, wait...”_ ).  


Books spoke of education, culture and good breeding. Books weren't obvious. So, John decided, a book on cats it'll be. Easy enough.

A visit to Waterstone's taught him better. After browsing four shelves stocked with feline literature – from glossy coffee table editions to cartoons with allegedly funny quotes – he'd fled the premises, mystified and overwhelmed. Who'd thought...?

But as he waited in vain for a better idea to pop into his head, he finally ended up – again – in a book shop, this time one Sarah had recommended, round the corner of the surgery, where John joined the ranks of the desperate last minute Christmas present shopping crowd.

Camden Lock Books consisted of numerous adjourning rooms stuffed with books from floor to ceiling. The customers came in all shapes and sizes – tourists, bankers, old and new local residents, the moustached men and too thin women clad in ill-fitting vintage clothing an unmistakeable sign for the inexorable gentrification of the East End. Under normal circumstances, John would have avoided this kind of wacky hipster establishment, but as it was his lunch break on the 23rd of December, he had no choice.

John roamed around without purpose, obviously intimidated by all this accumulated knowledge, until he ended up in the children's section, were he at least felt save (even if he'd only gone to a comprehensive, at least he'd finished his A levels, in contrast to all the other – admittedly much younger – readers around him).

As he randomly took books from the shelves and flicked through them, trying to adjust and get a grip on this place, he became aware of a little girl standing next to him, looking up curiously. He tried to ignore her as best he could, but she wasn't yet schooled in the complicated terms and conditions of adult interaction, and was therefore oblivious to John's avoidance tactics.

“What are you looking for?” she asked him precociously, twisting one of her long ginger braids around her sticky looking fingers.

“That's none of your business.”

“Why not?” The girl stalled stubbornly.

“Because.”

“Why are you so grumpy?” she sniffled.

“I'm not grumpy. I'm just in a hurry, looking for a book.”

“What are you looking for?”

John felt like he was trapped in a time loop.

“I am looking for a book on pussies. Perhaps you can show me one?”, he finally conceded, just to get rid of the little brat.

But instead of toddling off, the girl literally started to scream bloody murder.

“Mummy, mummy, the man over here is looking for pussies!”

Silence.

Heads turned.

Mothers started to flock together, ganging up to lynch the pervert.

John prayed to a deity he didn't believe in for the ground to open up and swallow him – but, perhaps due to his faithlessness, nothing happened.

Well, that wasn't entirely true.

There was a cough coming from behind him.

Jesus fucking Christ, John thought, his ears already ringing with the phrase _'Sir, would you please allow me to escort you from the premises?'_

But as he turned, he wasn't met by a bulky security guard – really a bit unlikely in an alternative book shop, but John was on the brink of paranoia – but by a tall, thin employer with a mop of dark curls, wearing a tight fitting purple dress shirt and matching bespoke black trousers, the intelligence evident in his sharp features enhanced by black rimmed glasses. The badge he carelessly wore on a strap around his long neck gave his name as 'Sherlock'.

John felt his face flush bride red as he started to sputter: “I'm sorry, this is a misunderstanding...”

“Of course.” John was surprised by the unusually deep and smooth voice for such a whimpy bookworm. To John's ongoing surprise, the fellow sounded neither disbelieving nor sarcastic.

So John pulled himself together and asked with as much casualness as he could muster: “Actually, I am looking for a book on ...”

But he wasn't allowed to finish, as the bookseller cut him short, elaborating: “... on cats, obviously. But I'm afraid your female … _acquaintance_ … won't treasure such a gift. She's not attracted to brains, but rather longs for some jewellery – earrings or a bracelet, preferably gold gemmed with a sapphire – and as such a present is definitely way out of your price range, you do not need to bother anymore to impress her. But I could recommend you a very helpful book on relationship advice, if you are interested?”

John just looked at the bloke, intimidated, speechless and baffled. Perhaps being strung up a lamppost by a raging mob of protective mother's would have been preferable to being dissected alive by this impertinent stranger?

“What the hell...” was all John could come up with.

“Oh, but it's quite obvious”, the git rattled on in his posh voice, stirring John in the direction toward the cashier. “You are not the type of customer frequenting trendy places like this. You are obviously not a tourist – no backpack – nor a hipster – clean shaven – so you didn't come here on your own account. As the festive season is in full swing, you must be looking for a gift, because you don't seem the type of man to read much yourself – well, despite the odd dim paperback crime novel” - at this, the strange guy screwed up his nose in disgust - “which you'll buy at a W H Smith. So you're in need to find a present. But for whom? If it was for a family member, you'd have known what to look for – people like you buy books only for elderly relations, a cook book for mum, something militaria for dad – but you roamed the place, clearly unsure what to get. And as you don't seem gay” - this statement was accompanied by an arched eyebrow - “it is safe to assume that you want to endow a female … _friend_. The level of uncertainty strongly suggests a very special female friend.”

John was too startled to object. This was just unbelievable. “But why do you think it's futile?”

“What, you buying her a book? Because you obviously don't know her very well, otherwise you would at least be aware of her favourite author, for example.”

“No, I mean, my intentions towards her?”

“Oh, that.” The man made a derogatory gesture. “Why would someone like you endeavour to impress someone you barely know? Romantic interest, of course. Now, you seem to be somewhat well off, at least to the untrained eye. Your manners are quite pleasant, if you are not trying to molest preschoolers, you speak Estuary English with only the slightest hint as to a northern origin, you wear good quality clothing and shoes – but they are at least two years old, so you are not rolling in money at the moment. But, as I said, to the unobservant – i.e. almost everyone – you seem a good catch. Eight out of ten women want jewellery for Christmas, so it is statistically quite likely that your … _love interest_ ... does the same, but is unaware that you are not in the position to buy her what she wishes for, as you lack the requisite income. As she is clearly looking for an affluent partner - which you aren't – your attempts are foredoomed to failure. Better to call it off right now, to avoid bitter disappointment on both sides. ”

“And the sapphire?” John couldn’t hide his astonishment, and frankly didn’t care if he sounded inquisitive.

“Well, you are blond, and most men chose their women a) because they resemble their mother, even unconsciously, and b) prefer blonds. Now, blond hair colour is inherited recessively, so both your parents are very likely blond as well. Therefore, you would most likely fall for a blond. And as blond hair often goes with blue eyes, as in your case, and lots of blue eyed women think that sapphires perfectly match the colour of their eyes, a blue-eyed blond would very likely appreciate a sapphire.”

John was totally gobsmacked.

“Is this some kind of trick? Are you trying to talk me into buying a book on mind-reading.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” It sounded offended and bewildered.

John looked around. “Because you work in a bookshop.”

“I don't.”

Ok, clearly delusional. Of course, the only weirdo in the shop had to go for John Watson. _'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden...'_

“What are you doing here, then, wearing a name tag, selling books?”

The tall man looked around conspiratorially before answering in a hushed voice: “I'm investigating.”

“Investigating?” John chuckled. “What can you possibly be investigating in a place like this? The new urban hipster fall fashion? Or are they fiddling with the books?”  
John couldn't suppress a giggle.

“Very funny.” The queer fogey retorted dryly. “There's a gang operating in this quarter, cooking meth on the top floor of these premises. But as I was just able to obtain the final proof linking them to a knife stabbing in Kilburn, and having texted this to NSY for further action, I was on the way to hand in my resignation when I came upon you in rather invidious circumstances.”

That said, he took his badge off and handed it in one swift motion to the senior manager behind the counter, adding: “Here you are, Jason, I'm finished here. By the way, the man over there with the leather satchel and the Burberry scarf is nicking all your Harold Robbins novels, which is not the worst purpose I can imagine feeding these sordid concoctions to. Good bye.”

And with that, he turned, took an impressive great coat from a hook near the entrance, put it on, turning the collar up dramatically, and left, pulling John along with him in his wake.

John's head spun. He eyed the tall man stalking next to him on the pavement with a mixture of fascination and suspicion. What the fuck had just happened? How did he end up following this rather dashing bloke around East London, when all he'd wanted to do was buy a Christmas present?

The first clear thought he was capable of came to him as they were passing Shoreditch Grind: He desperately needed a coffee. This had been his lunch break, after all.

“Sorry?” He shouted after his new acquaintance, and when he turned, John saw that he had removed his glasses, and that his eyes were mesmerising bright, just the colour of the slate-grey London sky. _'Jesus, John'_ he called himself to order _'you sound like a lovesick swooning maiden. Get a grip on yourself!'_

“Oh, you are still here. Why are you still here?” came the rather cold and aloof question in return.

“Well, you just … Never mind.” John looked around, feeling slightly forlorn, but then he thought _'Sod it. I invaded Afghanistan; I won't be intimidated by a smug twat in designer clothes.'_ He straightened himself up to his full 5ft.7, and asked: “Who are you?”

The man smiled rather haughtily: “Sherlock Holmes.” He extended a long elegant hand. John shook it, and was surprised by the firm grip.

“John Watson.” Neither let go, until their enduring handshake seemed a bit inappropriate, and John felt obliged to ask, sounding rather lamely: “I was wondering, would you like to have coffee?”

The gaunt man eyed him from head to toe. John felt assessed like a rare specimen, pinned under glass, but stood his ground unflinching.

His bravery was awarded with a small nod, before Sherlock Holmes pushed the door to the café open, stepping inside, holding the door for John.

“Black, two sugars, please. By the way, how do you feel about the violin?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I didn't screw up...
> 
> I took some inspiration from "John Watson's Twelve Days of Christmas" by earlgrey68.
> 
> If you liked this, I'm still open to prompts, so if you think of something, feel free to ask – I'll oblige if possible. Just use the comment section or email me at blue888@web.de.


End file.
